


leucotomy

by silkinsilence



Series: Femslash February 2020 [11]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Power Dynamics, Um...It's Not Great, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22855786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkinsilence/pseuds/silkinsilence
Summary: ‍Moira has taken something irreplaceable from Amélie, but she’s all too willing to fill her other holes.‍
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Series: Femslash February 2020 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621666
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	leucotomy

Amélie Lacroix loved fairy tales. She had a book of them when she was a child, with gold-edged pages and beautiful illustrations as captivating as the words. She remembers the drawings accompanying Rapunzel, the shining golden streaks in the girl’s hair. As a very young girl she grew interested in ballet because of that, because she wanted to play the role of a princess in something more dignified than a school play.

These memories surface as all other memories do: suddenly and undesirably. The Widowmaker quashes them down as best she can, but there are so few distractions here on her island on a lake.

The real foolishness of the witch, she concludes, was to keep Rapunzel in the tower. Better to let her wander the world, to marry her prince and go home to his castle, only to find him distant and the castle unbearably lonely. Rapunzel would return to the tower soon enough, desperate even for the witch’s twisted affections.

* * *

She has made promises she can’t keep before, to employers and donors and most of all to herself. That’s how one gets grant money, after all, or _any_ employment after one becomes a pariah and grants dry up. She has always toed the uncomfortable line between believing her own lies and knowing that her professional life is a sham with something miserable hiding behind the curtain. If she pulls it back, she will lose what little sense of herself she has.

But she _cannot, will not_ concede defeat in this, because acknowledging that she is incapable of taking a woman and shaping her into a weapon would be acknowledging that she has betrayed her organization and the closest thing she has to a family and her own paper-thin _principles_ for nothing at all.

So when Amélie Lacroix is delivered to her delirious, disoriented, distraught, but covered with the blood of her _late_ husband and Moira’s _late_ superior, the rush is a feeling she has never felt before. This is _victory,_ this is _vindication,_ and Amélie Lacroix with crusted blood on her hands and _face_ is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

She isn’t proud of what happens next, when the security cameras are off and the other agents are gone. But Gérard’s blood tastes good on his wife’s skin, and Amélie makes a wordless shuddering cry when she orgasms.

There are tears at the corners of her (blank, staring) eyes. Moira writes these off as imperfections to be corrected in future iterations.

* * *

Oh, how she wishes that she could simply be sedated and let the time between missions drift by in slumber, but that will not do. She is awake (is she?) and alive ( _is she?_ ) and the seconds pass like individual eternities.

“How are you feeling, Lacroix?” the voice asks when she, desperate as she is, reaches for her phone. She puts a face to that voice. She is thinking of sterile gloves and harsh lights and performing onstage. The space between her thighs throbs; orgasms are good distractions. She could come thinking about her latest kills.

How vacuous the promise Doctor O’Deorain made her was: _you will never feel again._

“I don’t feel,” she says, and wishes she could fall asleep, and touches herself to find her center absolutely dry. She doesn’t know why she called, except that she wanted something to fill the silence.

“I don’t like being disturbed,” Moira says. She sounds regal. Authoritative. The Minister. The Widowmaker misses the days when she was desperate and seemingly fraying at the edges. Power has corrupted her, if anything about her could be described as less than corrupt in the first place.

* * *

One memorable afternoon they are together in the chateau, safe from rain outside under the sheets of Amélie’s palatial bed. Moira doesn’t like Chateau Guillard. There is something unnerving about it. But she likes Amélie’s body underneath hers, and her hair spilled across the pillow, and her short breath failing her as she dies a little death.

It reminds Moira of her first visit to the estate, soon after Amélie inherited it from family members who fell prey to a mysterious assassin.

Amélie is lying facing away from her. Moira’s hand is on her hip.

“Could you undo it?” Amélie asks flatly. “Making me.”

The question chills Moira more than the weather. A sort of fevered panic begins its drumbeat in the back of her head. She digs her nails into Amélie’s skin without meaning to, without thinking about it. Amélie does not react, though the nails are sharp.

“It does not matter if I could,” Moira says, finally, coldly. “I wouldn’t.”

Amélie needs more conditioning— _more,_ she tells herself, like breaking an already broken toy will somehow fix Moira too.

* * *

She thinks about it more often than she thinks about any of the people she’s actually killed. What a thrill it would be to put a bullet through that swollen head. How lovely all her blood and brains would look matted in that red hair, spilled across the ground.

Moira’s teeth dig into her neck and she moans, authentic, wetness pouring from her onto Moira’s fingers as it never has for anyone else. Oh, she loathes this woman.

A knife in the gut or chest or throat. She would have surprise forever etched on her face, so amazed that the dog she trained would ever turn its fangs on her. The Widowmaker thinks about digging her hands into Moira’s wounds until they’re soaked with her blood and her breath leaves her, and the world splits into beautiful fractals and she delights for a few blissful seconds in this smallest of pleasures her body can still give her.

“You come so beautiful for me,” Moira says. Her voice is low and reverent. The Widowmaker wonders what she could say if she knew what really makes her come.

She leans into Moira’s warm, clothed body. That is the thing—a corpse wouldn’t have warmth, or words.

“Thank you,” she says, woodenly, and means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated!


End file.
